


Make No Mistake

by mokuyoubi



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: Alpha Adam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gender Issues, Human Trafficking, M/M, Omega Nigel, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, not with the main pairing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt requesting A/B/O spacedogs with Omega!Nigel.</p>
<p>
  <i>Nigel’s seventh year science teacher had liked to say, “Nature doesn’t make mistakes.” As far as Nigel is concerned, that’s an absolute load of shite. He’s living proof that science makes big fucking mistakes. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP and updates will be SLOW in coming. I do have an outline for the complete fic, and I do intend to finish it, but my hannigram fics are my main priority. Just a warning!

Nigel’s seventh year science teacher had liked to say, “Nature doesn’t make mistakes.” As far as Nigel is concerned, that’s an absolute load of shite. He’s living proof that science makes big fucking mistakes. 

Being an Alpha in Nigel's line of work was mostly unheard of. They were good in the upper levels, sitting around making deals, or for very specific instances of intimidation or...punishment. But for the day-to-day work, the dirty, hands-on stuff, it just led to a lot of posturing and unnecessary, unproductive infighting. 

Not to mention having an Alpha involved in any aspect of human trafficking was just asking for trouble. Unmated Omegas could fetch a hefty price on the black market, and all those unfettered pheromones were too much for even the most restrained Alpha to resist. 

Nigel did his level fucking best to stay away from that aspect of the business. He didn’t try to fool himself into thinking it had anything to do with morality--he just wasn’t that much of a hypocrite. 

It went without saying that any Omega, mated or not, had no place at all in this business.

Betas were the best have on hand. Not subject to genetic drive to possess and own and dominate. Not victims of their hormones. They were the people you could trust to do what was necessary and not mess with the fucking goods.

For nineteen years, Nigel lived like a Beta. His ma was a Beta, and they were dirt fucking poor, no way she was shelling out the dough to have him typed. But Nigel paid enough attention in school to know the sperm donor could have been an Alpha or a Beta, which gave him a three to one chance of being a Beta over an Alpha. And Alphas presented a lot earlier. When he hit sixteen without incidence, he figured it was a done deal. That was fine by him. 

The whole Alpha/Omega dynamic was a lot of bullshit, as far as he was concerned. Honestly, if Nigel were religious at all, he’d say it was the strongest argument for Intelligent Design. Because in what fucking world would this whole unnecessarily complex system survived millions of years of evolution? 

The human species was doing just fine on it’s own, even with mass genocide, nuclear proliferation, killing themselves over drugs and gods and sex, and still overpopulating the fucking planet. You hardly needed all the ridiculous over-protective Alpha routine and the simpering house-Omegas. Nigel wanted no fucking part of it.

He started dealing when he was fourteen. His ma’s boyfriend at the time was a minor player in a gang out of Aarhus, by the name of Eric. Let Nigel sell weed around the school and university. Taught him how to drive so Nigel could play getaway driver. 

Ma moved him to Göteborg after that messy breakup. An old friend living up there. She may have been a Beta, but she always acted more like an Omega, to Nigel’s thinking. Fucking weak, always needing another man to prop her up, never going longer than a week or two between ‘em. 

There wasn’t a whole lot of fucking opportunity for growth in Sweden. Laws too strict, penalties too harsh. It was strictly small time. At sixteen, Nigel dropped out of school and made his way to Oslo, and from there, it had been so fucking easy to use the skills Eric taught him--picking locks, what you can and can’t cut the coke with, how to throw a proper punch and where.

By nineteen, Nigel had made a fucking name for himself as trustworthy and vicious, travelling all around Europe to transport--Antwerp, Frankfort, Glasgow. Albania had the kinkiest whores, he discovered, and Serbia the most skilled. He liked keeping his relationships brief and uncomplicated. He’d had enough secondary relationship drama bullshit growing up with his Ma.

Then, right before his twentieth birthday, the fucking impossible happened. He was staying with this kid in Barcelona, cousin of one of the enforcers back in Oslo in Spain for university. In school Nigel had been around his fair share of Alphas, but since dropping out, he’d mostly been surrounded by Betas and the occasional Omegas. He was low level, still, and the only Alphas he ran into in his line of work were buying, an exchange that took a couple of minutes, tops.

This kid, Sebine, was the total package. As tall as Nigel with fucking legs that went on forever, perfect, pert tits, and a fall of silky blonde hair, and an Alpha on top of it all, smart and aggressive. And for the first week, Nigel managed to convince himself that’s all it was. He wasn’t in close quarter with a lot of women, and Sebine was a fine specimen. 

That was reason enough for the low-grade arousal he felt in her presence. The churning in his gut and the way his skin prickled when she walked into the room. Sebine hadn’t given him the time of day those first several days. She knew what she wanted out of life, and it wasn’t a drug-dealing Beta. But suddenly she was looking at him speculatively, and he could feel a shiver down his spine in response.

Thank fucking Christ she was out to class when it finally hit him. If she’d known, for sure, she’d have told her cousin, and he’d have been fucking done for in the business. Even as the fever came over him, sweat breaking out and he felt the first stirrings deep inside, a strange liquid rush, Nigel had enough presence of mind to get the hell out of Sebine’s apartment before she got home.

Of course, that meant unleashing his pheromones on the population at large, stumbling almost drunkenly through the streets of Barcelona. It was a Beta who found him, shoved him into a taxi and rode with him in the backseat. At that point Nigel was so far fucking gone, his rational mind given way to instinct, he hadn’t been able to protest.

But he ended up in a Sanctuary, through some fucking miracle. Given a room to lock himself away and toys that he’d snarled at and hurled across the room in disgust. He spent hours that first day in the shower, under cold running water, like somehow he could wash away hundreds of thousands of years of genetics.

In the end, instinct won out, after three days of keening, painful longing, writhing on the plastic sheets, mindless in his heat. Finally grabbing one of the toys from the pile in the corner--bright blue and smooth, no lines or ridges. The least realistic of the bunch. Nigel could accept that, at least, rather than the fucking flesh coloured ones, with thick veins and distinct head, attached balls behind the knot for what, fucking aesthetic? Fuck that.

So he fucked himself, ashamed at how easy it was to fit inside, how readily his body opened for the invasion, slick and hot and so fucking full once he shoved the knot in there. Attached the suction cup to a chair and rode the thing, grinding down hard and jerking his dick, curses spilling from his mouth all the while.

Two more days he did it, and it never felt right. Nigel didn’t know what right fucking was, but he knew this wasn’t what his body craved, and as the heat began to fade, he was overtaken by nausea and self-loathing, and kept himself locked up longer than he really needed, until the gentle knocking of his Beta nurse came, calling him out.

Nigel was brash and crude and insulting, but Alma was calm and respectful even in the face of his ineffectual rage. She explained that it was incredibly rare, though not entirely unheard of, that an Alpha and Beta with recessive Omega alleles could produce an Omega. That some Omegas didn’t present until their mid-twenties, though they tended to be less fertile and less desirable as mates.

Then, she explained, “There are drugs. Alphas have lobbied pretty hard to keep them off the market, but you seem to be a man who isn’t concerned with legality.”

So Nigel put his skills to use again, securing a steady supply of suppressants, scent-masking deodorant, cologne made with synthetic Beta pheromones. Fuck nature--if nature was going to make such a colossal fuck up, then Nigel was going to fucking fix it. 

He wasn’t some snivelling submissive. Even now, even having presented as an Omega he didn’t _want_ to mate with anyone. He didn’t need some big, strong Alpha to fucking sweep in and run his goddamn life. He was perfectly fucking capable of taking care of himself. 

No one was any wiser. Maybe he didn’t have a fucking Alpha’s preternatural strength, but he wasn’t weak, and in any case, a gun on hand and deadly aim made up for any shortcomings. He was brutal and efficient and charming, and he climbed the ranks with ease.

For 18 years, it worked perfectly well.


	2. Chapter 2

Nigel has a bad fucking feeling about this hit--has since the moment Sid called him for the favour. Sid has a way of shovelling all his shit off on everyone else, then charming them so they forget. Nigel doesn’t forget, but the he’s an enterprising motherfucker and the job’s in LA. At this point, with all the shit that’s gone down with Gabi, he’s ready for a change of scenery.

Leaving behind the drug trade, carving out a name for himself as ruthless and proficient enforcer, he mostly works alone these days. Contact with clients or others within the organisation is fairly minimal. He receives a message and is wired a down payment. He does the job, the rest of the money shows up in his account. Neat and efficient.

The clients insist on meeting with him and discussing it in person and Nigel almost says fuck it, except Sid reminds him that he totally owes him for Croatia. Then he meets his contacts at their fucking compound and _then_ he’s pretty close to saying fuck Sid and Croatia, and turning right back around to get on the plane. 

A pair of Alphas, both of them fucking gorgeous--both of them tall and packed with lean muscle, she with auburn curls and startling green eyes, a beauty mark just under the corner of the left, and fucking curves to die for; he with shortly cropped honey blond hair and brown eyes, plush lips. Both of them looking at Nigel like he’s what’s for dinner. Fucking Americans and their fucking overabundance of Alphas in organised crime.

Nigel doesn’t like being around Alphas. Even on the suppressants, whenever they’re in close proximity, he undergoes some physiological change--the prickling at the back of his neck, pulse ratcheting up a few notches, his skin suddenly oversensitive. Thankfully it’s not enough that any of them have ever noticed, but it makes him uneasy.

Right now, he’s tired from over eighteen hours of travel time, and stiff from being stuffed in a torture device the airline insisted was a fucking seat. He stinks of stale, faintly sweet sweat, and what he really wants is a fucking shower, a drink or two, and ten hours in his hotel bed. Instead he’s taken to chain smoking since the second he stepped out of the airport. Not only good for calming his nerves, the cigarettes work as a nice deterrent to Alphas who might otherwise notice something wrong about his scent.

“We were actually looking for someone different,” Claudia explains, when Nigel’s been shown onto the patio and given a tumbler of whiskey.

“Sid assured us you’re _exactly_ what we want,” Jeffery finishes.

Nigel is silent a moment, letting them grow uneasy with it, the way Jeffery’s smile fades while Claudia’s gets sharper with disapproval. Sucking in his bottom lip and stubbing his cigarette out on the pretty little plate the maid presented him (they don’t have ashtrays, you see), he finally meets their eyes, one at a time.

“You pay me, I do the job. Quick, clean, and easy, and no one can trace it back to you,” he says. “Satisfaction fucking guaranteed.”

“Oh, of that we have no doubt,” Claudia says. She might as well be licking her fucking chops, and Nigel has the oddest feeling for a moment, like they somehow _know_. 

He’s being fucking paranoid. Fucking Gabi, screwing with his head, making him vulnerable. With one long swallow, he finishes the rest of his whiskey and fights the urge to tug at the collar of his button down. It’s hotter than a fucking whore house on nickel night, and humid as hell.

“Do you care to enlighten me as to who it is you’d like to see taken care of,” he asks, pausing to light another cigarette and take a deep breath. He blows the thick cloud in their direction. “Or shall I guess?” He doesn’t bother to hide the venom in his voice. As far as they fucking know, he’s a Beta and he has no part in their little power games.

Something bright and vicious sparks in Claudia’s eyes, and Nigel is un-fucking-impressed, though he wishes he’d had time to stop off for a weapon between here and the airport; he always feels naked without a gun tucked at his side. Still, he faces her head-on, tongues the inside of his cheek, and lets his expression show her how thoroughly, cooly apathetic he is regarding all of this bullshit.

Jeffrey lays a hand over hers. “This is a bit of a...delicate situation,” he says.

Nigel snorts. The term _delicate_ is one rarely used in conjunction with Nigel and his work. He draws another lungful of smoke and expels it with a twist of his lips, taps the fingers of his left hand against his thigh. “I can sit here as long as you like, watching you dance your way around my questions, all while your ‘delicate situation’, left unchecked, spins right out of your control.”

Claudia jumps to her feet, pacing back and forth across the stone patio. Nigel helps himself to the bottle of whiskey, refills his own glass, leans back in his seat, and waits. With a sigh, Jeffrey takes out his phone, taps at the screen for a moment, and Nigel’s burner buzzes in his pocket.

Unhurried, Nigel takes one last draw from his cigarette before rubbing it out next to the others. He slips his phone out casually, flicks past the lockscreen, all the while watching the tension on Jeffrey’s face, the agitation in Claudia’s stride. Two Alphas losing their shit...it’s a lovely thing to watch.

The text is a photo. An Asian kid, probably no more than twenty, but it’s hard for him to say. Big, soft brown eyes; pale, softly arching cheeks; wide, softly rounded chin. Soft everywhere. Fragile. His initial impression is that it’s a boy, but the features are androgynous. Either way, it hardly matters to him. A job is a job.

“Akino is our Omega,” Jeffrey explains. “Bought and paid for. It’s all perfectly legal, you know. Japan has different ideas about the so-called Omegan rights here in Western Society. Akino’s parents were happy to sell him off to the highest bidder.”

Of fucking course he is. Nigel manages to keep his expression neutral, but he can feel the twitch of his jaw. His fingers curl into a fist, itching for violence. It’s not some misguided sympathy for one of his own kind--if anything, Nigel generally feels nothing but disgust for his fellow Omegas--it’s that he’s spent nearly twenty years avoiding anything to do with human trafficking, whether it’s condoned by local law or not.

“So your little pet ran off, hmm?” Nigel asks, arching a brow, laconic humour in his tone. “Good for him.” He grins at the vicious look that earns him from Claudia and he shrugs. “What can I say? I have to appreciate an Omega with a backbone. Still, I have no qualms helping him to shuffle loose this mortal coil.”

Claudia slams her hands down on the table forcefully and shouts, “No!” Nigel glances at her hands and back to her face, lip curling back in disdain.

“We don’t want Akino dead,” Jeffrey says hesitantly. “He’s pregnant.”

A strange wave of nausea rises in Nigel’s chest, followed quickly by the thought that he’d prefer to kill the guy rather than bring him back to give birth. Fucking Sid. Fucking Croatia. Fucking Gabi. Fucking fuck. 

Nigel is nothing if not a consummate professional. None of his conflict shows on his face. He sucks his teeth, toying with his phone, turning it on it’s corner on the tabletop. “It will take considerable more effort to return him to you whole than simply disposing of him,” he says. “There are networks the world over to help Omegas disappear. How long has he been gone?”

“Two weeks on Wednesday,” Claudia says. “We hired three different investigators before Sid suggested you. They’ve found nothing.”

Nigel gives them a look of blatant, scathing disbelief. “He could be halfway around the fucking world by now. There are places in Europe he could give birth and have legal protection against you.”

“He’s close to term,” Claudia says. “He wouldn’t risk travelling that far.”

“Seriously?” Nigel demands. “Fuckin--are you serious? You bought him and knocked him up against his will, and you think he won’t risk travelling somewhere you can’t fucking touch him? You think he cares so much about the pups his rapists filled him up with he’d risk his freedom to keep them safe?”

His control is slipping; a fuzzy white heat entirely unrelated to his wardrobe or the weather is creeping up his spine and over his shoulders, rippling down his skin. He needs to get the fuck out of here before he does something he’ll certainly regret later--he is not a man known for his restraint.

“Fifty more up front,” he says, jabbing a finger in their direction. “Final sum to be determined once I find him.”

Claudia leans over the table, teeth bared, eyes blazing. Something primal, buried deep in Nigel thrills and he shoves it down violently. “Bring my children back, whole, and you can name your price,” she promises.


End file.
